sticks & stones
by abbyfillion22
Summary: Inspired by Secret's Safe With Me. "Even on the worst days, there is a possibility for joy."


I sat on the old rusting swing. I hadn't used the playset in years; I wonder yet again why Dad had insisted on keeping it there. It only took up space in the backyard and killed the grass under it.

I grazed my bare toes through the brown crusty grass beneath me as I pushed myself backwards then let gravity take me forward.

My long black dress trailed behind me as I flew through the air. I had abandoned my heels in the lawn a few feet away; they hurt my toes and just weren't practical.

I had snuck outside a few minutes ago to get away from the crowd inside my house. It was filled with people in dark restricting clothes that wished they were somewhere else. I didn't recognize half of them. Something twisted in my stomach every time a stranger approached me and said, "I'm sorry for your loss."

_No you're not_, I wanted to say to that person. _You're not sorry, you're just being polite. You didn't know her._ _You have no idea._ "Thank you," I would say instead.

Then, the person would give me a sad smile and walk away to the buffet to eat a cube of cheese. "Poor girl," I'd hear them whisper to another.

I didn't want their pity. I didn't want to be at this reception; it was just too hard. But my counselor had said that the funeral was part of the grieving process. "It will give you closure," said the counselor.

I knew that I wouldn't have closure until Mom's murderer was caught. I flinched at "murder". I think that's what the worst thing was. At normal funerals, the person just died; probably of old age. But no, Mom was _murdered_. It was such an ugly word but that's what it was. Someone had taken her life; the reason unknown. When the guests inside would talk, they would say, "Johanna Beckett died" because that sounded a whole lot nicer than "Johanna Beckett was murdered".

I pulled tufts of dead grass out with my toes and let the pieces be taken by the wind.

I looked up when I heard the back door slide open. Dad was walking across the lawn towards me, his hands in his pockets. His tie hung undone around his shoulders and his shirt was untucked under his black suit jacket. He looked miserable and hollow.

His eyes were still bloodshot and puffy from the morning of crying and drinking. Dad drank a lot that morning; he had at least three scotches before breakfast alone. I worried about him, but I couldn't blame him. If I could, I would try to escape too.

I gripped the chains beside me and stared at the ground. The rust from the metal came off in flakes under my hands and made my palms itch.

Dad sat down with a sigh in the swing next to mine. I heard his knees crack as he did.

"Hi," I said quietly, looking at my toes. My friend, Madison, had painted them light pink earlier that week and they were now chipping in several places.

"Hi," said Dad.

We sat in silence; the sliding glass door allowing us to watch the guests milling about inside. Someone laughed and I cringed at the sound of happiness. It had been such a long time since I felt myself smile that I wasn't sure I remembered how to.

I gave myself a push and pulled my feet up to my chin, letting myself sway. The swing creaked as I did and I wondered if the whole structure would give under our combined weight.

Dad turned to me suddenly, his voice strong and clear. "Let's get the hell outta here, Katie."

I put one foot on the ground to still the swing. I blinked. "What?"

He stood up and grabbed both of my hands. He pulled me to my feet. "Let's go." He dragged me across the yard towards the driveway.

I stopped to pick up my shoes and let him take me to the car. He opened the passenger side door for me and I climbed in. "Where are we going?" I asked as he got behind the wheel.

"Somewhere fun," he responded with a grin.

We drove to the train station and left the car there. We hopped on the Q train bound for Coney Island. It had been years since the last time I was there; I was thirteen years old then and Mom had brought me here for my birthday. Dad had packed a huge picnic that we ate on the boardwalk under the stars. "Under the stars" was just a saying, of course, because you couldn't see the night sky because of all the city pollution. Back then, it still felt magical.

The salty smell reached my senses the moment we saw the shore and for a brief moment, I forgot all of my troubles. It was warm; the afternoon sky was only slightly overcast and a cool breeze kissed out ankles as we walked along the beach.

The wet sand sent a chill through my veins. A large wave came in and greeted us with its cool water; swallowing up the lower half of our legs and trying to suck us back into its body.

Dad held my left hand so he was a little further away from the water than I was. He grinned as I kicked up the foam; challenging the strength of the tide by venturing further and further in as we walked. When the water reached the hem of my dress, Dad pulled me back in.

He knelt down in the sand and picked up a small twig in the shape of a Y. He stuck it in his pocket and we kept moving.

Sprinkled throughout the sand, we found small bits of twine; probably from a runaway kite or packaging. The pieces were cold and wet from being in the water. Like everything else that washes up on a beach, they smelled like seaweed and salt. We snatched them up before the tide could claim them.

I found an almost circular rock mixed in with a pile of broken seashells and added it to our collection of junk. We didn't know what we were doing at the time; just picking up whatever looked interesting. I felt like a little girl again; carefree and elated by every small thing I found.

When we couldn't hold anything else, we sat down in the hot sand and laid our scraps in front of us. We ignored the fact that we were getting our fancy clothes dirty. Dad started arranging the pieces into figures. He put the round stone that I found at the top and the Y shaped twig attached to it like a body. Then, he found a ruler-straight stick about the size of my finger and crossed it in the middle of the Y.

He held the pieces up while I used the twine to glue everything together. It took several attempts to get everything to stay but a half an hour later, we had a man made of sticks, stones, and twine.

Dad held it up proudly like he had just won an Oscar. It wasn't perfect –far from it-; the arms were crooked and the whole thing looked like it would fall apart at any moment. But to me, it was the best thing I had ever made. "Sticks and stones may break your bones, Katie."

He handed it to me and for the first time that day, I smiled.

* * *

"Does that make that day a bad memory or a good one?" Rick asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I grin, twisting Stick and Stone man around in my fingers. "Both."

He raises his eyebrows, wanting the reason for my answer.

"He's a reminder that even on the worst days, there is a possibility for joy."


End file.
